


Mead and Mistletoe

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: 12 Days of Banana Fish-Mas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mild Language, No Spoilers, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: New York City is cold during the winter, but pockets of warmth are abundant.This will be a collection of works for the 12 Days of BF-Mas fanwork event. Pure fluff and cheese abound.





	1. Tree

He’d be damned if he ever told anyone, but Ash had learned that one of the surest ways to understand a person was not by their choice in music or hobbies, but how they decorated a Christmas tree.

He knew himself well enough to know what his decorating habits (or lack thereof) meant. He generally didn’t bother with one — being borderline transient made it difficult to consider any place “home” long enough to consider it worth the effort. 

Christmas stirred up strange memories. 

Some of them were with Griffin, the two of them curled up near the fireplace drinking cocoa and reading poetry; Aslan delighted in his yearly gift of a song written by his brother — something no one else in the world would know but him. Aslan used whatever was lying around to try to make a portrait of Griffin, a child’s experiment in mixed media: buttons, flowers, crayons, seashells. Griffin always seemed genuinely delighted and had made sure it was framed prominently in the entryway.

He liked to pretend that Dino never celebrated Christmas.

He always figured his crew didn’t, either, which made the large, garish package sitting in the living room twice as confusing. Alex, Bones, and Kong were aghast when they had asked Ash about a tree and received a noncommittal shrug in reply. 

_Who the hell sets up a Christmas tree in a gang hideout?_

It was sentimental and stupid, Ash thought, but he bit his tongue as the three of them spent hours figuring out how to maneuver the PVC skeleton of the artificial tree. He had no idea if the tree was stolen or legitimately purchased, uncertain as to which mental image seemed more ridiculous: the three of them trying to conceal a box taller than Bones, or the three of them huddled meekly around a shopping cart in the holiday aisle.

“Wha’dya think, Boss?”

_I think you probably stole it._

Bones had settled into his trademark squat; the tilt of his head and bit of tooth peeking through his lips reminded Ash of an alley mutt. He was could easily imagine Bones wagging his tail. Kong and Alex were more stoic, but the small pull at the corner of Alex’s mouth gave him away.

“Looks stable enough. But you’re not out of the woods yet.”

Alex gave the tree a once-over before nodding in agreement.

“It needs decor. A plain tree is just depressing.”

“Well, of course! Ya gotta make sure the tree’s sturdy n’ shit before you start puttin’ stuff on it!”

Ash’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and the name illuminating the screen was familiar, sending a small tendril of warmth down his spine.

“I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get tangled up in the tree — I gotta split.”

Kong’s face cycled through outrage and confusion before understanding dawned on it.

“Tell Eiji we say hi.”

* * *

Ash’s breath was lodged in his chest when he first saw it.

He didn’t think Japanese people celebrated Christmas, so he certainly hadn’t expected Eiji to. 

The large, lavish Christmas tree nestled in the corner of their apartment said differently. Eiji had turned off the lights for dramatic effect.

The tree smelled… authentic. It smelled like actual fucking pine, and in spite of dreading picking up pine needles for the next several weeks he couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything other than awe.

_How did he even get it up here?_

Eiji had adorned the tree with flickering multi-color lights and small orbs hanging from its branches. Ribbons and streamers, tinsel, popcorn and cranberry garland — all of it painstakingly strung together and wrapped around the tree. Eiji had even found a star to display proudly from its peak.

Ash could imagine it: Eiji walking up and down every single aisle in the holiday decor section, unable to find an item he didn’t like. Eiji loved color and texture, and in spite of how claustrophobic the tree looked with its mixed themes he could tell that Eiji had been far from careless.

“What do you think, Ash?”

Eiji’s voice was soft, his dark eyes wide with barely-restrained delight. There were pine needles in Eiji’s hair and stray pieces of popcorn sticking to cranberry-stained fingers. 

Eiji’s tree was the most garish, ridiculous thing Ash had ever seen in his life. 

In the background, the sweet fragrance of mulled cider wrapped around them. The atmosphere was strangely intimate; Ash suspected it might have something to do with the how Eiji was illuminated by the Christmas lights, black hair and pale skin somehow capturing the nuance of every hue he was bathed in. 

_Always the light falls //_ _Softly down on the hair of my belovèd._

Ash couldn’t stopper the smile bubbling up from the pit of his stomach; he could feel it spreading across his face and melting the chill that had settled into his bones.

“It looks great, Eiji.”

* * *

The Snow is Deep on the Ground by Kenneth Patchen

The snow is deep on the ground.   
Always the light falls  
Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.

This is a good world.  
The war has failed.  
God shall not forget us.  
Who made the snow waits where love is

Only a few go mad.  
The sky moves in its whiteness  
Like the withered hand of an old king.   
God shall not forget us.  
Who made the sky knows of our love.

The snow is beautiful on the ground.   
And always the lights of heaven glow  
Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.


	2. Gifts

Ash can’t remember the last time he got someone a Christmas gift, if ever.

Gifts for his brother were strictly handmade, a cluttered mess of materials and mediums held together loosely by Aslan’s sheer tenacity. 

Years went by after his brother went to war. Aslan became Ash, and gifts became synonymous with the feeling of a knife pressed against his throat.

It was easier to just tell people that he didn’t like gifts. He hated giving them, and hated receiving debt wrapped with a bow moreso.

The figure standing at the stove in their shared kitchen, flipping through the pages of a cookbook and stirring diligently, had warped Ash’s usual distaste for exchanging gifts.

Eiji filled him with something that he knew the words for but was afraid to say. Attaching words and labels to things obscured their meaning when one facet of it edged too close to ill-defined margins. It was better, Ash thought, to avoid those margins in the first place. If it meant that the hot, swirling chaos that danced within him remained nameless, so be it.

More difficult, however, was determining how to express those feelings, vacillating somewhere between gratitude and need.

_Thank you for being by my side and demanding nothing for it. Please stay with me, even if for just a little while longer._

“Hey, Eiji?

“Yes?” Eiji doesn’t look away from the pot, arms working vigorously as he stirs; Ash wonders what in the world he could be making that demands so much of his attention.

“What do folks do for Christmas in Japan?”

Eiji’s head tilts thoughtfully for a moment.

“Christmas is… less serious, I guess. It’s more for spending time with friends, or going on a date.”

Before he can stop himself, Ash imagines what it might be like: walking through the park and admiring the lights, competing to see who might catch more snowflakes on their tongues. There are countless frivolous things (he tries not to call them _stupid,_ not when it could involve Eiji) that come to mind, and a bitter sludge settles in his stomach as he realized that approximately none of them are feasible. New York City might look dreamlike, all dazzling lights and snow to a tourist like Eiji; all Ash would be able to see are countless places for someone to hide until Eiji lets his guard down.

Ash swallows his pessimism and tries to keep his tone light before Eiji becomes concerned.

“Have you ever gone on a date for Christmas?”

Eiji laughs quietly, and Ash is surprised to hear how joyless and empty it sounds. He resists the urge to run into the kitchen and wrap his arms around Eiji, settling for crossing them over his body in laughable imitation.

“I haven’t.”

“Would you like to?”

Ash’s hands cover his mouth with an audible slap, and he wonders if it’s possible to catch the words and gulp them down before Eiji hears them.

The soft melody of the wooden spoon scraping against the side of the pot stops; apparently it’s too late. Eiji turns around slowly, still clutching the spoon.

Ash can imagine the look in Eiji’s eyes.

Pity. Guilt. Apology.

“Go on a… a date?”

Eiji’s eyes are wide, but filled with dazzling light where Ash had expected murkiness.

Hope. Expectation. Delight. 

Relief.

“Yeah. Just you and me. We could… I dunno. Look at the tree at Rockefeller Center, or drink cocoa, or… something. I don’t really know what you do in Japan for Christmas.”

“Neither do I! But that is okay! We can do anything, Ash!”

Eiji’s voice is sunshine and barely-restrained excitement. He can’t but smile in return — Eiji is blunt to a fault when he’s genuinely happy, and he doesn’t have it in him to find room to tease. The word  _date_ reverberates throughout his skull, making him feel light-headed. 

“I know it sounds lame, but I can’t think of what else to do for Christmas. You’re hard to shop for.”

Eiji blinks, head tilted in confusion.

“Shop? But you are already giving me a gift, yes? I don’t need a gift  _and_ a date, Ash. A date is a gift.”

Eiji is beaming, and Ash’s heart hammers furiously beneath his ribs as he wonders if Eiji realizes precisely what ‘date’ implies.

_“It’s more for spending time with friends, or going on a date.”_

Eiji differentiated between the two, Ash thinks, and the brittle hope within him sings with the realization.


	3. Fireplace

“You’re shivering, sir.”

Blanca’s voice, in contrast, is warm and decadent. Yut-Lung bites his tongue, his rebuttal immediately betrayed by the trembling flute of champagne in his hands.

He’s never done well with the cold, and today is no exception.

“Well, of course I am. Or have you lost forgotten what the seasons were like while you rotted in the Caribbean?”

He tries to inject as much venom as he can in his tone, but the click of his teeth as they clatter renders his remark into a pathetic whine. He finishes the remnants of the flute, hoping Blanca’s hearing is worse than his observational skills. 

Blanca, unperturbed, removes the flute from Yut-Lung’s grasp, setting it delicately on the coffee table. He sits close enough for his body heat to be tempting, but too far for it to offer any genuine comfort. Yut-Lung pretends that the sourness on the back of his tongue is annoyance rather than disappointment.

“I grew up somewhere far colder than New York. I trust you haven’t already forgotten.”

Of course he hadn’t. It’s far too easy to imagine Blanca in a different life: Sergei, with short-cropped hair and a fur coat littered with snow that somehow made him look even larger than he did now. Sergei would have easily dwarfed his late wife; she would have likely found any excuse to burrow herself within the cocoon his warmth provided, and Sergei would have guarded her fiercely. Sergei would never shiver, he thought. Sergei could probably run on nothing but vodka and the steely defiance that simmered just beneath his skin.

Blanca, however, was crouched in front of the fireplace and, though not wracked with bone-deep chills like Yut-Lung, rubbed his hands together in an exaggerated attempt to warm them. The cold clearly didn’t bother him — it was unlikely that it ever would — but all the same Yut-Lung felt a small bubble of appreciation for the act.

“I haven’t. Do we have enough firewood, Blanca?”

Blanca’s name still feels strange to say so bluntly, but the pleasure of doing so outweighs his concerns about propriety.

“Yes, sir. I should have this going in just a mom — ah, there we are. Give it a few minutes and you should be considerably warmer, sir.”

With that, Blanca stands up and makes a small bow as if to leave, and something small and animal keens within him in protest.

“I—just a moment.”

Yut-Lung clears his throat, and he knows from the heat flooding his cheeks that they’re likely flushed from the champagne and the strange restlessness in his chest.

“Have a seat. If I’m cold, then it follows that you are, as well. You should warm up a bit. You’re useless to me — as a bodyguard, that is — if you get sick.”

Yut-Lung looks squarely at the floor, hoping that the heat smoldering just beneath his skin is sufficient to burn him alive.  _Immolation by humiliation_ , he muses.

Blanca’s smile sharpens; his eyes are murky and unreadable, but the expression is familiar. Not for the first time, Yut-Lung had hurled a verbal barb that Blanca had easily caught and dismantled. His smile is affectionate, but his eyes are challenging. 

“As you wish.”

Blanca acquiesces, seating himself on the sofa and stretching out his legs. For a moment Yut-Lung marvels at how much heat he radiates; this time, Blanca is careful not to breech his personal space (he does not ask how Blanca knows precisely where the boundaries lie), but is close enough that between the crackling fireplace and the person beside him, Yut-Lung is blanketed in warmth. Yut-Lung leans his back against the armrest, digging his icy feet under Blanca’s leg and almost sighing from relief. Blanca looks down and tuts, shaking his head and scowling comically.

“I’m not a space heater.”

“You’re right. Space heaters are far less argumentative.”

Blanca laughs under his breath; perhaps it’s the gentle flickering glow of the fireplace, but for a moment the stoicism in his smile seems to thaw and Yut-Lung swears he sees  _him._ This smile did not belong to an assassin whose mere presence terrified Ash, nor a marksman whose deadly skill with a rifle had sent a thrill down Yut-Lung’s spine. He didn’t even think this strange smile belonged to Blanca, for whom men and women trembled out of either fear or lust.

Blanca’s smile thawed, and for a moment he swore he saw Sergei.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I am adding a note here to avoid potential misunderstandings, as this pairing is understandably controversial.
> 
> This particular chapter is tagged as Blanca/Lee Yut-Lung. I feel it should be fairly obvious from the writing, but in case it is not: any romantic inclination in this chapter is one-sided. Blanca is fond of his contractor, but not in a way that would compromise his professional and ethical obligations.
> 
> This fic is not constructed such that a mutual relationship feels appropriate to explore here. Any ventures into that interpretation of their relationship would be done with a considerable degree of warnings and caveats.


End file.
